


Never Boring

by the_tenth_muse1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, M/M, M/M Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_tenth_muse1/pseuds/the_tenth_muse1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a flurry of cases, John wakes up to several surprises for his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Boring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Juli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juli/gifts).



> Birthday fic for Juli! Because she's awesome!

The first thing John noticed when he stumbled downstairs was that the living room was clean. Not just tidied, but pristine with everything put away and the lingering scent of lemon polish hovering in the air. He rubbed his eyes and then shrugged when it remained clean, wandering into the kitchen to make tea. He’d filled the kettle and set it on the stove before the state of the kitchen penetrated his sleep-deprived mind. This time, John pinched himself to make sure he was awake. The kitchen remained spotless and a deep wariness started creeping up his spine.

John walked to the fridge and then paused, realizing that it wasn’t the same fridge that had been there yesterday. He cautiously opened the door and found only foodstuffs – and two bags of milk – on the shelves.

He turned and shouted, “Sherlock!”

A loud thud echoed from Sherlock’s bedroom and then the door opened and Sherlock stumbled quite literally into the kitchen. His eyes were barely open and he was nude save for snug black pants, but his hands were up defensively as he looked around wildly. “What? Who’s attacking?”

John smirked a bit and said, “No one. Why is there a new fridge?”

Sherlock’s hands lowered as he straightened up. He glared at John and said, “You woke me for that?”

“Yes, Sherlock. There’s no such thing as Refrigerator Fairies. That means someone came into the flat and replaced it, as well as cleaned the entire flat, while we were sleeping.”

Sherlock waved a hand around airily. “Nonsense. I had Mycroft take care of things. Happy Birthday.”

John blinked at him in surprise and then realized that yes, it actually was his birthday. The madness of back-to-back cases had completely thrown him out of step with the calendar.And sleep. “Oh. Well. Thank you, then. Will the fridge remain in its current state or is this only for the day?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply. He simply walked back to the bedroom and firmly shut the door.

John grinned and went about making breakfast happily secure in the knowledge that there would be zero possible food contamination. At least for the moment.

* * * *

It was almost noon and John enjoyed the still-quiet, still-neat flat as he sat in his comfortable chair and wrote up the latest case in his blog. The doorbell rang, prompting a frown. He knew better than to think Sherlock would get the door. Once the man finally fell asleep, he was down for a solid ten to twelve hours. He still felt a bit guilty for waking him up earlier, as funny as it had been to see a disheveled Sherlock. Besides. Even if Sherlock was awake, he wouldn’t answer the door.

John walked over and opened it to a deliveryman holding a rather large box. “Yes?”

“You John Watson?”

“Yeah.”

“This is for you, then. Sign here.”

John accepted the box that was shoved at him and set it on the floor, still frowning. He signed for the package and closed the door. Bringing the box over to the coffee table, he used his keys to cut it open. His frown deepened upon seeing a laptop nestled securely inside. No one he knew would buy him a laptop for a gift, not even Sherlock. There was no note inside, nor a return address.

_Maybe it’s to do with a new case,_ he mused, closing up the box again.

Shrugging, he made a mental note to check with Sherlock later and picked up his laptop to return to writing up _The Case of the Red Letter_. He still had the bruised hip where that damned pony had kicked him two days ago. _This is why I avoid the countryside. And Sherlock wants to tend bees when he retires. What on earth am I going to do with him?_

His mobile rang a little while later and he grinned at Lestrade’s name. “Sherlock’s sleeping and I’m not waking him up.”

“I do call after you half the time too, you know. Happy birthday, you old git,” Lestrade teased. “What’s this, fifty?”

“Oi!”

Lestrade laughed. “Sorry, mate. It’s the jumpers. How’s your day going so far?”

John grinned and said, “Blessedly quiet, with Sherlock sleeping. I didn’t plan on him being out for my birthday, but it was a nice surprise.”

“Think he’ll remember?”

“He already did! There’s a new fridge in the kitchen and the entire flat was scrubbed clean overnight by some of Mycroft’s lackeys.”

“While you were sleeping?”

“I’m trying not to think about that part.”

“Still. It’s the thought that counts, yeah?”

“Especially with him, yes.”

Lestrade chuckled and said, “So look. Pints tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. It’ll be you, me, Molly, Sherlock if you can pry him out of his bed, and Mycroft.”

John winced. “Really?”

“John.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m still getting used to that. Sure. Count me it.”

“Good. See you ‘round seven.”

“I’ll be there. And thanks, Greg.”

“Sure thing, mate. Happy birthday.”

John rang off with a smile, glad not to have been forgotten by someone besides Sherlock. Although really, Sherlock remembering his birthday at all was touching in its own right. That he’d gotten John a gift – even a somewhat creepy one – was icing on the cake.

It was nearly half-four when the doorbell rang again, disturbing his guilt-free delving into a mystery novel that Sherlock didn’t know he’d bought. He squirreled it away for the days that Sherlock slept and, therefore, couldn’t tell him the ending. Setting aside the book, he walked over and opened the door to another deliveryman holding a large box.

“Yes?”

“You John Watson?”

With a distinct sense of déjà vu, John answered, “Yeah.”

“Sign here.”

John awkwardly signed his name into the small device with the tiny stylus and took the box even more awkwardly. “Thanks.”

The man grunted and turned to leave.

John lightly kicked the door shut and walked back to his chair. He used his keys to open this box as well and found smaller boxes inside. This seemed more in-keeping with his friends and family. Or, it did until he opened the first box to find an expensive watch inside. And then a set of gold cufflinks. Lastly, most oddly, a pair of shiny, brown shoes in his size. Despite the lack of cards, there was no mistaking this as anything but gifts for him; but from whom, and why?

_It’s a nice watch,_ John thought, hesitantly putting it on. It fit perfectly, not too big for his wrist as often happened. He took out the directions that came with it and read how it was waterproof, was accurate to the thousandth of a millisecond, and had a lifetime warrantee. He looked it up online and gaped at the horrific price tag, quickly taking it off and putting it back as he’d found it.

The cufflinks were solid and quite heavy for their size; he was inclined to think they were real gold, which only deepened the mystery. Who on earth would spend this sort of money on him? He hadn’t been involved with anyone since Mary, content to spend his time looking after Sherlock and not worry about potential assassins or spooks trying to infiltrate his love life.

_And it’s not as though Sherlock wasn’t my world before her,_ John silently admitted, sounding rueful even in his own thoughts. He sat back down and picked up the book again, but his heart was no longer in it.

John had accepted that he’d been in love with his asexual partner for a rather long time. Possibly since they’d met; certainly since Moriarty had toyed with them at the pool. He came from a long line of men who were adept at self-delusion, however, and had embraced his denial until Sherlock’s fake suicide. Staring at that empty grave…

Shaking off the morose thoughts, John closed the book and brought it back to his bedroom, hiding it in the hopes Sherlock wouldn’t find it before his next day of sleep. He took a shower to kill a bit of time, using the time alone for a leisurely wank. Having all the hot water to himself was a luxury. He let it relax his muscles and stoked himself off to lovely thoughts of a naked Sherlock. It didn't take much, since he was so relaxed, but that was fine. He groaned out his pleasure against the wall and panted a bit to catch his breath.

He stepped out of the tub and dried off, taking time to give the tub a quick clean before returning to his room to get ready for the night. John dressed in comfortable but nice slacks, a dress shirt, and his best jumper. By the time he walked out into the living room, Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, but fully dressed. Well dressed, too, John noticed, looking over the lanky form with pleasure. Not that he couldn’t make a bedsheet look good – and had – but the black dress slacks and dark maroon top clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination. A black suit coat hung over the sofa arm.

“Joining us then, are you?” John greeted.

Sherlock made a humming noise and then said, “And Lestrade didn’t even need to threaten me.”

John chuckled and sat. “Glad to hear it.”

Sherlock cracked an eyelid to look at him, frowned, and fluidly sat up. “Why aren’t you wearing your gifts?”

John’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Those were from you?”

Sherlock’s tone implied his stupidity. “Who else could send you shoes and a watch that fit perfectly?”

John rolled his eyes. “Harry, for one. Probably Molly. Mycroft. Lestrade’s pretty observant, too.”

Sherlock waved his hand and said, “They none of them have the funds nor desire to outfit you properly. And by the way, they won’t let you in with that jumper. I assumed you would understand that from the cufflinks, but I should have spelled it out.”

“No one cares what I wear at the pub.”

“You’re not going to the pub.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

John took a breath and let it out in a whoosh. “I think we’re having two different conversations. When you said you were joining us, you meant ‘us’ as in the royal we, didn’t you?”

“Technically, you did. I was agreeing with you.”

John rolled his eyes and said, “Setting aside the fact that I don’t use the royal ‘we,’ or ‘us,’ I meant Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and myself by us.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet, pale eyes flashing. “Absolutely not.”

“Sherlock. They’re expecting us. I already told Greg we’d be there around seven.”

“Then cancel. We have far more important plans.”

“Such as?”

“It’s a surprise. Just… go get dressed in something better. We’ll be late if you aren’t ready within ten minutes.”

John wanted to argue, but Sherlock so seldom stepped outside his little bubble that he didn’t want to burst it. Sighing, he picked up his mobile and called Lestrade on the way back to his bedroom.

Lestrade didn't even say hello. He answered the phone with, “He won’t come, will he?”

John sighed. “Actually, he made plans for tonight. It was supposed to be a surprise which we’ve now spoiled. Give my best to everyone?”

Lestrade didn’t sound too put out when he said, “Sure, of course. Swing by tomorrow so I can give you your gift.”

“Thanks, mate.”

John disconnected and tossed his mobile onto the bed and went to pull out his only really good suit to find a different, new one, waiting in its place. Rolling his eyes, he called out, “Not good, Sherlock! Ask, next time!”

The silence was deafening and he shook his head, pulling out the suit. He was used to Sherlock’s high-handed behavior, but one of these days he was going to switch out something of Sherlock’s just so the other man knew how it felt.

The suit was a warm brown and made from expensive, weighted material. It would be plenty thick enough to battle the damp fall night, though he would take his coat since it would probably rain later. The shirt was a silky blue material that, he suspected, matched his eyes. Sherlock was sentimental in odd ways. It all fit perfectly of course and he walked downstairs in his socks to put on the shoes that Sherlock had obviously bought to complete the outfit.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa again, so John finished getting ready on his own. He winced a little putting on the watch, but couldn’t refuse the gift as too much. It would hurt the feelings Sherlock insisted he didn’t have. Which reminded him. “The laptop’s for me, too?”

“Obvious.”

John shook his head fondly. “You’re impossible.”

Sherlock sat up and said, “Mycroft’s people have encrypted it, so you needn’t worry about anyone getting into it.”

“Except you.”

“That doesn’t count.”

John smiled a bit, because at this point, it actually didn’t. “Right. So, where are we going?”

“Really, John, I’ve already said it’s a surprise. Here, let me do that.”

John blinked in surprise when Sherlock took the cufflink from him. The other man lightly cradled John’s forearm as he slid the gold piece into the buttonhole, snapping it into place with a soft snick. The warmth of his hands easily bled through the fabric, a comforting presence. He looked up just as Sherlock glanced at him and just like that, John’s gut tightened in unexpected anticipation. They’d been this close hundreds of times over the years, but almost never in such benign circumstances.

Sherlock’s tongue darted over his lips and he slowly released John’s arm to take hold of the other, accepting the second cufflink that John held out and fitting it in. “There. That should do it. I’m glad you liked your gifts.”

John smiled and had to bite back, “I’d like anything you gave me,” even though it was true. He didn’t want to embarrass Sherlock or himself with an excess of unwanted emotion. Instead, he said, “I do, thank you. They’re all very thoughtful.”

Oddly, Sherlock only hummed neutrally in response to the compliment and stepped back. “Shall we?”

John almost expected him to offer his arm with the formal request and half-smiled at the thought. “Lead on.”

There was a dark car out front waiting and John wasn’t surprised by Sherlock’s brief scowl, even as he motioned for John to get in.

“Are we sure it’s not going to take us to the pub?” John asked with a grin. “Mycroft’s expecting us there.”

Sherlock shook his head and said, “I texted Mycroft while you were changing. He obviously doesn’t trust that I’ll get us there on time.”

_Or at all,_ John thought with a hidden grin. Mycroft well knew how easily distracted Sherlock could be when not on a case.

The drive didn’t take long surprisingly, and the car stopped outside a restaurant that John had never been to before because it was so beyond his price range as to be ridiculous. He hesitated, then said, “Sherlock, no. Really. This is too much. The other gifts were _more_ than enough.”

“They really weren’t,” Sherlock said, firmer in his tone than John. “Come, John. Don’t be an idiot.”

John snorted. “Only you can insult and compliment someone in the same breath.”

Sherlock half-smiled and was out the door before John could protest more. John just sighed and shook his head. It wasn’t as though he’d be able to talk the other man out of this. He followed Sherlock out of the car and they walked inside. Even in his new suit, John felt underdressed as he looked around at both the diners and the wait staff. This was where the wealthy came to eat, which he distinctly was not.

Sherlock leaned towards him and said quietly, “You fit in, stop fidgeting.”

John hadn’t even realized he was doing so and instantly stopped the fingers drumming against his thigh.

The maître d’ smiled briefly at Sherlock and said, “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Your table is ready.”

They followed him to a table against the side, far enough back that the whole restaurant was visible when John took the chair by the wall. Sherlock sat opposite him as if he had no care that his back was to the world and vulnerable to attack. Not that John would let him be attacked, but still.

“Your server will be over directly,” the maître d’ said with a slight bow before leaving.

John half-smiled as he picked up the menu. There were no prices on the menu, just like he’d thought. He opened his mouth to offer one more, small protest, but Sherlock simply lifted an eyebrow at him and he caved for good with a sigh. “Fine.”

The server appeared within seconds, a blonde, cheerful girl who looked so young and fresh-faced that John suddenly felt ancient. She set two glasses of water on the table and asked brightly, “Good evening, sirs. My name is Marnie and I’ll be your server. Would you care to start with a drink?”

John was about to order a double scotch when Sherlock said, “Not tonight, I don’t think.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll just give you a few minutes to decide.”

“Sherlock, I was going to get a scotch,” John said, irritation making his voice sharp.

Sherlock just smiled serenely and said, “Not tonight, John. You need to stay focused. Nothing to cloud your decision making process.”

_A case. Of course,_ John thought, everything suddenly making sense. Nodding, he lowered his voice and asked, “What’s the case? Why didn’t you tell me?”

A faint frown marred Sherlock’s brow and mouth. “I told you, this was for your birthday.”

“Then why do I need a clear head?”

“It’s a surprise.”

The server returned before John could ask for more information.

Sherlock said flatly, “We’re not ready.”

Her blue eyes widened and she stammered, “I’m sorry, I’ll come back,” remarkably like a blonde version of Molly.

John fixed a pointed stare at Sherlock for the rudeness who scowled back at him and said, “You’re not cooperating. This is supposed to be a pleasant dinner for your birthday. I was reliably informed that this was what one did on birthdays.”

Surprise ran through John and he said, “You asked someone for advice on how to celebrate my birthday? Who?”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened and he slumped back in his chair. “Molly.”

And suddenly, this time for real, things became clear. Dear, sweet Molly with her romanticized view of Sherlock, as well as Sherlock and John together, though they weren’t together no matter how many times she was told otherwise. John relaxed abruptly and chuckled in fond amusement.

Sherlock’s tone grew positively petulant as he said, “What? Why are you laughing? We were just fighting.”

John’s heart swelled a bit more with impossible fondness for the mad bastard across the table. “Well, we’re not now. Thank you, Sherlock. This is lovely. Now. What do you recommend? No, you know what? Just order for me. As long as it’s not something that moved about on more than, or less than, four legs, I’m fine with whatever you order.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes scanned his face for a few more seconds before he, too, relaxed. He motioned off to the side and their server, now appropriately intimidated, approached.

Before Sherlock could scare her further, John said, “Sorry about that. Just a tiff. Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then ordered rapidly in French. The girl’s eyes widened but she hurriedly wrote down whatever it was he ordered and repeated it back to him in French. Sherlock gave a small, satisfied sniff reminiscent of Mycroft and nodded. She beat a hasty retreat.

_I am going to tease him for that to no end tomorrow,_ John thought with an internal grin. Aloud, he asked, “And what’s for dinner tonight?”

“I thought I would indulge your simple palate and ordered you a steak.”

It was only by dint of knowing Sherlock so well that he saw the humor in those pale eyes. John huffed in amusement. “Simple palate. Nice.”

Sherlock half-smiled and said, “I also ordered you a Scotch to come with the meal. Once you’ve a bit more in your stomach, your clarity should be fine.”

John huffed in amusement and said, “Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So why do I need a clear head, if it’s not for a case?”

“Also part of the surprise.”

John shook his head. “All right, then.”

It didn’t take long for the meal to arrive and John spent the intervening time listening to Sherlock disparage the diners around them. It was terrible and he knew he absolutely should _not_ encourage it, but John still found it fairly astounding and completely hilarious.

The meal itself was as delicious as anything John had ever eaten and the Scotch top shelf. Naturally. He was fairly certain it still wouldn’t be worth the no-doubt ridiculous price tag, but he’d already given in and wasn’t going to bring it up again. There wasn’t much conversation while eating, but it was a comfortable silence that John soaked up like he did all interaction with Sherlock. Pathetic, but there it was.

The waitress didn’t return until it was obvious they were finished, clearing the table with efficiency as she asked, “Will there be any dessert tonight, gentlemen?”

John opened his mouth to confirm when Sherlock said, “No. Just the check.”

She nodded and withdrew.

John frowned at Sherlock. “I was looking forward to that.”

Sherlock half-smiled and said, “We’ll get dessert elsewhere.”

John pursed his lips, but didn’t complain, instead settling in to enjoy the rest of his surprising night.

The black car awaited them outside and John snickered in amusement at Sherlock’s momentary pout. It was a short drive back towards Baker St., but stopping in front of Angelo’s before arriving. Surprise washed through John. Sherlock wasn’t the sentimental sort, so dessert here was a little odd.

_Except he knows that I’m a sentimental fool, so maybe not that odd after all,_ John thought, stepping out of the car.

Their ‘regular’ window seat was available, held by the small _reserved_ sign set in the center, next to a single, romantic candle and tiny vase with a rose and sprig of baby’s breath. John huffed in amusement at Angelo’s persistence, but didn’t comment, sitting with his back to the wall. Sherlock, of course, sat with his back to the window the nutter.

Angelo approached with a tray in hand that held two small plates, glasses of water, and coffees. The bear of a man beamed at them and said, “Evening, Sherlock, John. Here we are. Tiramisu for two. Enjoy!”

John chuckled as he picked up the tiny fork with which to eat the dessert.

“John, switch with me.”

John looked over at Sherlock and frowned. “What? Why?”

Sherlock pushed his plate forward and said, “Just do it.”

John rolled his eyes, but indulged him, trading plates. He pushed his fork through the crème and cake and, oddly, into something hard that wasn’t the plate. He dug around for a minute and pulled out a ring with his fork. He blinked at the object in surprise, canting his head as he brought it closer to get a better look.

“John.”

Refocusing on Sherlock – those intense, tourmaline eyes now shaded towards clear blue – John asked, “Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”

The words were soft and low, but unmistakable. John gaped at Sherlock for a few seconds before he managed to stammer, “What? Excuse me?”

Sherlock took the ring still dangling from the fork and swished it around the water before drying it and holding it out again. “Marry me. My life without you is… unacceptable. Boring. Incomplete… useless. I cannot function properly without you any longer, for which I blame you entirely. Marry me, John.”

Several things ran through John’s mind almost simultaneously…

_Yes!_

_He’s mad!_

_We haven’t even dated yet!_

_A lifetime of Sherlock…_

“John? Have I broken you?”

John jerked out of his thoughts and refocused on Sherlock. He shook his head and said helplessly, “Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s eyes remained locked on his and then his hand lowered. “So the answer is no.”

“No, what? That’s not why I shook my head. God save me from obtuse geniuses. That was me trying to clear my head, as it were.”

“So the answer is yes?”

John huffed in dark amusement. “You do realize we haven’t even dated or had sex yet. There’s no way to know if we’re compatible in that area.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a brief grin and he said, “Oh, we are definitely compatible in that area. I’ve done experiments already.”

_Don’t ask._ Really _. Don’t ask._

“What experiments?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again with a snap. He finally said, “Perhaps we should simply move on with the knowledge that we’re compatible.”

John gritted his teeth and agreed, “Good idea.”

“So? Will you?”

“If you think I’m not going to take the opportunity to bind you to me with every bit of societal pressure possible, then you really are obtuse,” John said flatly, holding out his hand.

Sherlock… beamed at him. There really was no other word for it. The sight unnerved John a bit even as Sherlock pushed the ring onto John’s finger and said, “Excellent!”

“You really are insane.”

“I was given to understand this would be a happy occasion.”

“It will be, once the shock and anger’s worn off. Give me time.”

Sherlock nodded sagely. “Very well. Tiramisu?”

Diverted by the dessert – and the oddly heavy weight of the ring now around his finger – John lifted his fork and began to eat what had to be the best-tasting tiramisu he’d ever had. His gaze kept straying to the ring, the dark gold stark against his finger.

“It’s engraved. Inside the band,” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing.

That, of course, meant John had to stop eating, take of the ring, and look. Not that he didn’t believe Sherlock, but he had to see for himself. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find _Property of Sherlock Holmes_ inside, given how possessive the other man was of things – and people – he considered his, but no…

_Never boring_

John smiled. It was Sherlock’s highest compliment. He put the ring back on and smiled at Sherlock. “And now I’m happy.”

Sherlock smiled back and it was more his usual, “I’m very pleased with myself,” smile.

Of course, it brought John’s attention to Sherlock’s mouth, which reminded him of all manner of things one shouldn’t think in public. He licked his lips and said, “Time to go.”

Sherlock looked briefly puzzled and then stood abruptly. “Right! Intercourse.”

John laughed and shook his head fondly. “You’re impossible.”

Angelo wouldn’t hear of them paying and gave John a too-tight hug, squeezing some air out of him in the process. The dark car waited outside again and it was a short ride back to Baker St.

John had been waiting far too long to make it anything like it should have been. A night of lovemaking after becoming engaged. No, this was sheer desperation mixed with intense need and years of frustration. He kicked the door shut behind them and yanked off his coat, pleased to see Sherlock divesting himself of clothing as well. They made it to the sofa – barely – mostly undressed.

He shoved Sherlock onto the worn cushions and shoved his pants off. Sherlock squirmed out of his own and then John was on him. Sealing their mouths together, John kissed him like he'd been dreaming of for so long. It was hot and wet and deep, tongues battling for dominance and achieving symbiosis. John groaned and shifted a bit, moving his hands so he could rest on them and rub their cocks together. It wasn't much at first but somehow Sherlock magically produced lube and wrapped gloriously long fingers around them both.

The kissing was endless. It was John's reason for being. His dick was hard and aching, but it was the connection to Sherlock he craved and refused to release. Sherlock kissed back with equal enthusiasm, breaking only briefly to bite John's lower lip sharply. John gasped, an extra zing of heat jolting through him at the tiny hurt.

Sherlock grinned knowingly at him and murmured, “See? Compatible.”

John growled a bit and dove back into kissing him.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around them, creating perfect friction as they thrust against each other. His other hand massaged John's lower back and then his ass... and then fingernails scraped fire up his spine and that was it. John cursed and came, shuddering as he spent between them. Sherlock gasped and threw his head back. John had just enough of his senses to use one hand to cup his head and force Sherlock up so he could see the orgasm wash over those fine features.

A few seconds later, when Sherlock relaxed into the sofa, John released him and said, “Budge over.”

It took some shifting about, but eventually John was flush against the back of the sofa while Sherlock remained on his back. He hitched a leg over Sherlock's narrow hips and smiled as he rested his head on his fiance's shoulder and his hand on Sherlock's chest. His gaze remained on the ring for a while.

Sherlock tucked the old quilt around them and kissed the top of John's head. “Once I make my mind up about something, I very, very rarely change it unless some extraordinary new evidence overrides my belief.”

John smiled and said, “I know.”

“I know you know. I'm reinforcing the knowledge so that when I tell you now that I love you, you will remember it in the future when I've angered you. Or when I forget to tell you. Or... when I can't tell you.”

The quiet words settled deep in John's heart and his smile grew. “I'll remember, Sherlock. And I love you.”

“Obvious.”

John grinned. _Best. Birthday. Ever._

 


End file.
